It doesn't matter what age they learn to talk. Honestly.

And today I return another child to University.  One has already gone, another is yet to leave, so I thought this was the ideal place to have a quick word about children...

I've several friends at the moment with young children. And by 'young' I mean still falling over, being sick and weeing everywhere - which I realise can also describe me after a hard night on the orange juice, but these particular ones have ages in single digits. The children, I mean, not the parents, because that would be odd.  And, almost without exception, they feel that their child is somehow 'behind' on something.  Those whose little ones can confidently recite pi to fourteen decimal places, are worried that their child isn't yet running confidently downstairs with a pig under each arm.  Those whose children are currently entering their ninth marathon are worried about that lisp when their child pronounces on the subject of 'absolute existentialism'.  Those parents who aren't worried about either of these things are particularly fretful that their offspring has a tendency to remove all its clothing in Tesco, and run down the offal aisle.

As I have raised five children past the 'naked offal-running' stage, through the lisping inability to do a jigsaw puzzle without wetting themselves and up to the ability to dress themselves in clothes that don't frighten horses, I feel qualified to tell all those parents not to worry.

Honestly. Seriously, don't worry.  I despaired too that my children would never learn to use the toilet/never learn to speak in a language that didn't consider 'Onint' to mean Elephant/never be able to walk confidently up and down stairs without dropping to their bottom and shuffling... and yet... one of them is a father himself, three are at University, and one is performing advanced singing and dancing in front of many people.  One of them called a pigeon a 'pim', one used to pronounce swan with a peculiar nasal 's' that sounded like pfhwan, and one got ridiculously excited by dinosaurs and knew practically every single type (including Baryonyx) by name by the age of three.  All now functioning normally in society (well, if you count training to be accountants to be normal, which I don't, but your mileage may vary) and able to pull their own trousers up and put socks on the right way round.

Two accountants, one writer, and a working father of one. I know, hard to believe, isn't it?  Just goes to show that you should never despair...